


Ruined For All That Follow

by fourfreedoms



Series: Ruins [1]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: M/M, Pre-Series
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2008-07-21
Updated: 2008-07-21
Packaged: 2017-11-08 16:55:59
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,291
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/445413
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/fourfreedoms/pseuds/fourfreedoms
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Pre-series, Sam is 17. Sam thinks sex isn't fun, Dean decides to show him otherwise.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Ruined For All That Follow

**Author's Note:**

> I am the world's biggest liar apparently. A girl says she's done with this pairing, but then suddenly she's lying in bed, and she finds the words pouring out onto the page. Thanks go to [](http://halfshellvenus.livejournal.com/profile)[](http://halfshellvenus.livejournal.com/)**halfshellvenus** who inadvertantly inspired me with the line about the heroine in a book having "such magic orgasms...that it changes her entire life thenceforward."  
>  -Lauren  
> July, 2008

His skin’s on fire—too tight and itchy, like he’d gone sliding across carpet naked. He knows if he stays out in the sun the burn will only become deeper, damaging the tissue beneath. But he’s got nowhere else to go when it gets like this. It’s too hot to run. The public pool is all he has. It’s crowded here, half the lane lines removed so that the kids have a shallow area to swim in. The diving pool is filled with bored pre-teens playing submarines.

He splits his lane with a guy doing a swift utilitarian free-style while Sam flies through the water, arms winging up past the surface and striking with enough force to make the nervous terrible feeling in his stomach going away.

He can’t stand to fight with his dad, but there are times when his father just sets him right off, and he can’t fight the words pouring out of his mouth—he takes a savage pleasure in walking away every time his father demands he turn around. But there is always Dean’s face afterwards, shuttered in anger, but above all disappointed. And Sam worries that maybe it’s enough to make Dean stop loving him.

When he can’t take it anymore, when his lungs are too big in his chest, and he’s starting to encroach on the other guy’s space, he pulls himself out of the deep end, water gushing out his trunks from the motion. He realizes he forgot to bring a towel. His stuff is next to a yellowing lawn chair, wallet tucked into his left Air Jordan, clothes thrown together inside his gym bag.

He puts his shoes back on his feet without socks. He tries to work out what he’s going to say when he gets back. He’s got to be careful. If he isn’t, he’ll find himself mad at Dean for being mad at him. Sam fears Dean’s anger. It makes him lash out—his fight or flight response kicking in so hard he barely knows what’s happening. Sam only knows how to be calm in high stress situations. Nothing in his upbringing has taught him to deal with the way things just play out in day to day life.

He’s walking to the gate when he sees him. Dean is sitting by himself on a swing, slowly swaying back and forth. He looks bored and pissed off, and Sam wants to walk away. To make Dean realize how Sam deserves better, to make Dean apologize to him, but none of this is Dean’s fault. Sam’s enormously conscious of the chlorinated water dripping over his skin, itchy and annoying as it runs off out of his hair and hits his shoulders, sliding down over his chest and past his belly.

“You’re going to turn into a lobster if you keep coming here,” Dean says, tone even. The swing is low enough that his fingertip is trailing only a few inches above the ground. Sam sighs. He can’t think of anything to say back. Dean doesn’t wait for him anyway. “Wanna get a pizza, rent a movie?”

Sam doesn’t want to. He wants to walk back home and go to sleep. He wants to not be him anymore, but someone else who doesn’t feel like this. But he knows better, if he doesn’t do something, it’ll only get worse, like sepsis festering in a wound. He puts his shirt on and it sticks to his wet skin. Dean’s eyes dart over him behind lowered lids. Sam wonders if his blue polo had picked up dirt while he was in the pool, but he doesn’t see any smudges.

The town they’re living in has a blockbuster and a tiny little place called Midtown that has a huge horror section. Dean has seen almost all of it, but Ginger Snaps is out again so he grabs the 1992 Dracula with Keanu Reeves and Sam groans. He can’t pick a movie for himself though, so he goes with it. When Dean pays, a pack of popcorn and Redvines shoved in next to the tape, the tension breaks. Dean’s being a glutton and Sam’s just along for the ride. The air is still fragile between them, but Sam is not consumed with it anymore.

They order a pizza with the works and pop the tape in. He doesn’t know what he’s expecting. A piece of crap to be sure, but perhaps also something with a little similarity to the horror genre. Instead there are pale breasts emblazoned on the screen within five minutes and Sadie Frost accidentally enjoying her rape at the hands of Dracula in wolf form. It’s demented. Bram Stoker is probably off crying wherever writers go after they die. He wants to barf every single time they keep going on about how it’s the greatest love story ever told. Why did Coppola agree to make this picture? Sam is mystified. Dean is rapt at the breasts.

“Ugh,” he finally says. “I’m going to go read a book.”

“Huh?” Dean replies, finally tearing his eyes away from the screen. “Why?”

“Sex is gross, especially like this.”

Dean laughs, a little incredulously. “Dude, you’re seventeen, not five—I think it’s time we got over cooties.”

Sam’s skin simmers like the sun is still shining on it. “I just…don’t like it,” he says after a long moment of Dean staring at him with eyebrows raised.

“Whoa, whoa, whoa when did you—” Dean breaks off, suddenly shy. He switches off the TV.

Sam shrugs and leans back into the couch. “Couple of months ago, it was unworthy of note.”

Dean is still staring at him, but his mouth has dropped open. “I have a robot for a brother,” he whispers dramatically.

“Oh shut up,” Sam says and crosses his arms.

Dean shakes his head in wonder. “You must not have been doing it right.”

Sam is angry now, he can feel it dripping down his throat, congealing around his heart and filling up his lungs. “No, Dean, I was doing it right. It just wasn’t any good. It was like kissing—a complete misrepresentation. I’d rather have been by myself.”

“Holy—” Dean tosses the remote aside. “You have got to be wired wrong, somebody took all the DNA connected to your dick and replaced it with Oxford English Dictionary.”

“Dean!” Sam shot up from the couch, breath whooshing out of his mouth. "Don’t you think I’d like to enjoy it? That I’d like to feel a connection to someone?"

Dean blinks at him. “Connection? Oh my god! Do you have a dick at all?” He looks at Sam's crotch, horrified.

Sam blows out another breath. “Clearly I shouldn’t have said anything.”

Dean is off the couch. “No, _clearly_ you should have said something sooner.” Sam stomps over to the little kitchen that is separated from the living room by a cheap formica counter. The fridge has an electric water dispenser in the door, and Sam shoves a glass underneath it, feeling like he never should’ve left the pool at all. “Look, dude, we can fix this, I know a girl in town. She’ll totally—”

Sam is tempted to throw the contents of his cup at Dean and stalk off to bed, but he settles for a big swallow of water. Dean isn’t mocking, he’s genuinely concerned which is both insulting and painful. He turns around, ready to leave the room and slam his door behind him, when Dean grabs his wrist. “Look, Sammy, don’t be mad—it’s just, sex is amazing, and if it isn’t working for you than that really, really fucking sucks.”

Sam groans.

“Maybe that girl was just a bad kisser, don’t knock it, just because you had one lousy experience.”

Sam laughs, but it’s bitter, shards of glass mixed in arsenic. “Dean, I have kissed _a lot_ of people, for all I know it’s just me.” He tries to pull his wrist back, but Dean doesn’t let go.

“This is tragic. This is like children starving in Africa.”

“Don’t be an ass—” he starts, but he’s interrupted by Dean leaning into his space and brushing their lips together. He poised to back away, to seal his lips up tight, and try not to make any noise of disgust, but then Dean’s other hand slides up his back to grip his neck and draw him in closer. He touches their mouths together again, a trace of tongue just behind parted lips. And Sam should be running away screaming, filling his mouth with Cascade dish detergent to wash out the sensation of his brother kissing him, but he’s too astonished by the fact that he doesn’t hate it. In fact, it feels good. It is, it is—crazy, but…

Sam stops thinking when Dean walks him back into the counter and their bodies are brought flush. Sam has a quick intake of breath when the heat of Dean melts into his already sensitized skin and then the tip of Dean’s tongue is playfully pushing into his mouth. His hand is tight in Sam’s hair, angling his head to best advantage. Sam is just barely taller than Dean, but he’s slim against Dean’s broad chest and strong arms. He feels completely enveloped, and his heart rate keeps sky rocketing higher because Dean’s still got his hand tight on Sam’s wrist, his thumb swiping carelessly over Sam’s pulse.

Sam moans, he can’t help it, and he feels Dean smile into the kiss, deepening it at the same time. Their tongues tangle together, and Dean’s breathing hard through his nose. Arousal is spreading in Sam’s belly, lighting up every single area their bodies touch. When Sam boldly sucks on Dean’s tongue, he’s rewarded with a sharp groan and Dean hiking him up onto the kitchen counter so he can push his body between Sam’s thighs.

Sam tears his mouth away when their dicks brush together. He can’t get enough air in through his nose. It feels like forcing himself through the water until his lungs burn and tighten, only a million times better. He can’t quite get his mind around the fact that Dean is just as hard as he is.

“I gotta say, I don’t think it’s you, Sammy,” Dean whispers into the skin bared by his collar. Sam’s hips jerk and Dean uses a hand at the small of his back to grind him harder against his dick. He curses, fingers digging in to the dip in Sam’s spine. Words are spilling out of Sam’s mouth, nonsense, logorrhea. Dean’s hips work faster against him, the inside of Sam’s thighs will be red tomorrow from where denim met bare skin.

Suddenly he feels like he’s got to touch Dean everywhere. He fists his hands in Dean’s t-shirt, shoving it up around Dean’s ribs because Dean refuses to stop touching Sam so he can pull it off. The tips of his blunt and bitten-down nails run over the smooth skin of Dean’s back. He loves the way Dean’s muscles tense and release under his touch, but he adores the way Dean hisses when the pads of his fingertips pass over the tiny taut nubs of Dean’s nipples.

Sam is burning up, his cock is heavy with blood and he feels like electricity is surging out of Dean through his right palm and up his body and then down again to run out his left hand back into Dean. Dean keeps taking his mouth, rhythmically fucking it with his tongue, showing Sam what it would be like if he tipped himself back and let Dean inside.

They’re too tight together for Sam to get a hand between them, so he pushes it past the waistband at the back of Dean’s jeans, cupping the firm globe of Dean’s ass. The skin is sensitive just above the tailbone. Sam knows from his own experience and he lets his thumb skate back and forth over it. Dean’s teeth sink into his lower lip, and that is it for Sam. His head falls back on his neck and his whole body jerks as he pulses out in his shorts. Dean is muttering, “Yeah, just like that,” over and over again, until Sam feels completely wrung out, muscles trembling from overexertion.

Dean kisses him through it, hips pushing hard into Sam’s slowly softening dick, while Sam cries out from the pleasure-pain of it. Dean comes a minute later with Sam’s name drifting through the air, bouncing off the cupboards, before sinking under Sam’s skin.

They don’t move. Sam literally cannot process what just happened, and while Sam has never feared his father, he fears what would happen if John were to find out. Because he could make Dean hate it.

“Heh, knew I could get you to enjoy sex,” Dean tells him when he finally pulls back, derailing Sam’s anxiety. He winces at his wet jeans and walks like John Wayne over the paper-towel holder. Sam drops his elbows to the counter so he can prop himself up.

“I can’t believe…” he starts.

“What? That orgasms are magically awesome?” Dean says, lightning quick grin on his face. “Yeah, I’m just that good. You should talk to that girl I know in town.”

Sam jumps down off the counter and shakes his head going to the half-bath in the hallway to clean up. “What you are is a complete tool.” He has to ignore the way he’s shaking in front of the mirror.

The anxiety is back. Sam has found his connection, and he knows from Dean’s jocular tone and his return to the movie, that he is never going to be allowed to have it again.

"Oh god, did she just--" Dean calls out. "Sam, get back here, this movie is amazing!"

*


End file.
